


The Games

by IAmNotOneOfThem



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Death of minor characters, M/M, Magic, Violence, Witches, mentioned rape, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotOneOfThem/pseuds/IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the witches had been banished from the kingdom, the <i>Games</i> are being held once again. A bloody tournament with six Omegas being the prices for forty-seven knights, and Bond was one of them. Broken from the War and the Hunt, he did not expect to win, especially not with an injury.</p>
<p>Things change, however, when he runs into one of the Omegas, and discovers that not all witches have been killed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Losttoysintheattic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Losttoysintheattic).



> _Not beta-read_
> 
> It has been a while since I last posted anything - be it a prompt-fill, or a chapter for a story. But this idea wouldn't let go of me, so I had to write it down. Listening to the Skyrim soundtrack certainly didn't help.
> 
> I'd like to apologise for being on hiatus for so long. School was a pain in the arse, and real life kept me busy. I got a tattoo, found myself a human pet, and have written twelve pages for my paper that is due in four weeks. The time off tumblr did me some good, but I'm glad to be back and hope that creativity will hit me again a few times. I don't know if I will fill prompts again, or if anyone will want me to, but we'll see.
> 
> This work is dedicated to the 00q fandom, but losttoysintheattic in particular. She has been a great friend to me even during my hiatus - sorry this isn't Steve/Bucky, dear :P - and has tried to bring me back to writing. I guess you could say she succeeded in one way or another, since I have written something.
> 
> Warning: This oneshot contains violence, the death of a minor character, mentioned rape, alcohol abuse and PTSD. Please be responsible.
> 
> And now have fun!

It had been years since Bond last participated in the Games, and yet the distant silhouette of the castle seemed almost too familiar. He shouldered his bag once again, its weight pressing down on his old injury, and put spurs to his horse. It had been his companion for many years, and seemed to recognise the area too; his ears lay flat against his head, and his steps showed how reluctant he was.

Bond understood too well. He had never wanted to return either.

Years after the witches had been banished from the kingdom, all went back to its former state; the cities that once lay in shadows and mist had been reclaimed by the light, and were rebuilt one by one. There hardly were any ruins or destroyed buildings left anymore - at least not on the way from the highlands Bond called his home. He had passed many villages, many cities, that were filled with life and happiness. Everyone was glad that the reign of terror was over.

So glad, in fact, that they insisted of hosting the Games once more.

After a short control at the gate, Bond was free to enter the castle. He rode past knights from all across the kingdoms, bearing their crests with pride. Bond recognised a few, had stood by them on the battlefields, and nodded at them with a blank expression. It was easy to tell apart civilians from former soldiers, at least to him. Those who were capable of smiling had never have to see their brothers fall, those with eyes empty and souls broken on the other hand have.

"Why am I surprised to see you here?"

Bond didn't bother turning his head; he had recognised the other the moment he opened his mouth. If there was one man who stood out amongst the others, then it was Alec; his grin was brighter than the sun, his eyes filled with joy.

"I was invited," Bond said, slowing his horse down so Alec could keep up by foot. "It would be rude to not accept."

"Since when do you care about manners." The other shook his head at him, brown eyes staring intently up at Bond. It would have made him uncomfortable with everyone else, but Alec was the closest thing to family Bond ever had. An orphan amongst many. Nothing special. "No, this is no act of manners, brother. Here to participate?"

"Yes."

Alec blinked in surprise. "Oh. That's unexpected." He put a hand on the back of Bond's horse, jumped up and sat down. Bond took the hint and sped up again, moving through the crowds of excited, babbling people.

Six Omegas for forty-seven knights, he heard them say. It would be a bloody mess by the end. Sharp weapons, no armour, no rules. Basic instincts against the urge to claim, to take, to possess.

Bond pitied the Omegas that were treated like meat. After the witches have been burnt, their curse was lifted from the lands, and in consequence the Games. An old tradition held by the King that was meant to pair off the Omegas of the kingdom with the most capable knights. Some of the Omegas sold into the bond had not reached maturity yet. Their first heat was ahead; flesh unclaimed, fresh, untouched and pure.

Something inside Bond's belly turned in desire he swallowed down. The bitter taste of hatred, frustration and shame ran down his throat like fire, making him wish he could tear out his heart and destroy it with his sword. Last time didn't end well; what would make this time different? Who could guarantee him that the Omega would not die in his arms?

Vesper had. Her corpse lay somewhere beneath the waters, if it had not been torn apart by beasts yet. Who knew what lay down there.

"I heard that they have four Omegas younger than twenty-one," Alec whispered into Bond's good ear, having made enough noise not to startle the other. "Some of the knights have not been able to keep their hands out of their underwear ever since the rumours spread. Bloody bastards. I'll enjoy putting my sword in their stomachs."

Bond turned his head a bit, taking in Alec's grin before regarding the crowds around them. He wondered how many had to see their children leave, and how many wished theirs would go.

"It won't be easy," he just commented, and directed his horse to the stables.

Many lost their families during the Great Hunt. It would be a lie to claim that no one was interested in taking one of the Omegas as theirs; Bond was here too, after all. Unlike most, however, he wasn't looking forward to standing in the arena and having to fight again. The thought of picking up his sword and cutting through skin made him feel sick.

He jumped off his horse, barked a command at one of the stableboys, and then left Alec, heading towards the next tavern. The first battles were in two days, when the sun stood the highest and when the King gave his blessing; enough time to get drunk and drown his pain.

There was no one he wanted to visit. It had been years since he last set foot in the capital - back then, everything was burnt, black and covered in dust, the air so thick from the ashes of the fallen that breathing was a pain, nothing but torture to one's mind - and those he knew here were long dead. Tanner had moved, Eve was the King's right hand, M was dead. The old woman had taken down a witch herself before the curse had hit her. 

No one understood how the bitch did it without a weapon. Bond assumed she knew a bit of magic herself, but never mentioned it. There were things that were better left unspoken.

The moment he pushed open the door to the tavern, the scent of alcohol, sweat and burnt food rose into his nose. It almost reminded him of the scent of burning corpses. On dozens of wooden chairs, the drunktards of the city downed one glass after another, cheeks red and eyes unfocused. Amongst them, Bond spotted a few knights who probably had the same idea, some guards. He could smell Omegas, but didn't see any. They probably were in the back for their own safety.

Emotions ran high. The last Game Bond witnessed ended in a riot; four Omegas were killed after refusing to have sex with strangers in the streets,  Alphas tore off each others' heads, and houses were destroyed. Always a blessing for the country, Bond remembered the King saying, and snorted. Surely his definition differed from Bond's own a lot. He wouldn't call destruction a blessing.

The bartender had nothing but beer, and it was cheap. The good alcohol had been brought to the castle, where the noblemen and women celebrated. If the Omegas were lucky, they were given a few gulps to relax, but Bond doubted they'd be able to keep anything down.

Staring into his glass, Bond curled his fingers around it, lifted it off the counter and gulped down the liquor in one go. Even though the beer had a higher alcohol percentage than usual, he still didn’t feel its effects, throat numb and stomach used to worse. He held a hand up to order another beer; at this rate, it would take ages until he’d be drunk, until he could forget.

Just when he got his sixth glass, someone sat down next to him. It took Bond a few moments to recognise him, namely because he had only ever seen him with a face covered in blood, but then he nodded at the former soldier and went back to drinking.

“Mallory,” he grumbled against his glass. He felt dirty next to Mallory, whose armour was polished, shining with the dim lights above their heads, whose skin was white and barely any scars visible anymore. Life of a nobleman was good to him in a way it has never been for Bond himself.

“Bond,” the other acknowledged, then turned around to take a look at the crowds around them. His smile dropped a bit, a taste of disgust visible in his features. Bond understood too well, but years of searching comfort in every single tavern across the lands had made him immune to the stench, to the sight of vomit being mixed with tears of laughter and spilled beer.

It must have been the first time for Mallory to enter such an establishment; he had been injured during an early fight against the witches, and had changed professions. For a man of his status, it was easy.

Bond wouldn’t know what to do if he wasn’t a soldier. Even now that the thought of using his sword made him want to throw up, it was the only thing he had left. He had coin, he had an old, and wrecked, estate, and status. None of that was of much use when he chose to drink away his money rather than spend it on something useful.

“I didn’t want to believe Trevelyan when he told me you’d participate,” Mallory said, voice barely audible over the shouting and singing of the drunk men around them, “but here you are. Drinking in an old tavern, waiting for the Games to start. Last time I was given news about you, my informant told me he’d seen you die.”

Bond turned to look at him and contracted his eyebrows. He had not known he was being watched, but it would explain the urge to hide that had rested inside his chest for a while. Perhaps he should have known it was Mallory; the other always seemed to stick his nose into business that wasn’t his.

“Why not staying dead, Bond?”

The question took the knight off guard. It was a query he had asked himself often before, but it wasn’t something one would expect to hear in a tavern while drinking. Instead of replying, he stared into his glass, which, in this moment, was a more pleasant companion than Mallory. After all, it didn’t ask him annoying questions.

“There’s no shame in saying you’ve lost a step,” Mallory continued, turning to order a drink himself. “You and Trevelyan might be the only ones left of the Hunt. Many would thank the Gods for still being alive, and settle down.”

Bond’s grip around his glass tightened. He knew he couldn’t cause a scene, or else he’d be thrown out of the Games before they’d even begin, but it did not mean he couldn’t want to. Mallory surely was out of training. It would be easy to take him down with a well-placed punch.

He swallowed down the anger together with his beer, starting to feel the pleasant buzzing under his skin. “Since when are you so concerned?”

“Ever since you have become suicidal enough to even believe that you might win. Are you aware of how many fights you have to go through until you can take one of the Omegas as yours?” Mallory put his hand on Bond’s shoulder, but pulled away again once he felt the other’s muscles tense. “You are old, Bond, just like I am. We do not belong in the arena anymore, do not stand a chance against the young knights and warriors.”

“They have never seen blood being spilled in war,” Bond said to him and stood up. “But they will.”

He left the payment to Mallory and left, becoming part of the crowds outside. With the little alcohol he had, he was anything but drunk enough to deal with the noise, the people, the feeling of metal brushing against him as knights pushed past. If he concentrated enough, he could still hear the screaming, and the laughter of the witches. He could still see the burning houses, the people trapped beneath wooden truss, and the blood that covered the ground in an ocean of red.

In a swift movement, Bond turned into an alley, bent down and threw up.

To anyone passing, he was little more than a drunk knight who had no shame left. Truth be told, Bond thought that impression was fitting; he was no knight in shining armour, was no saviour of damsels in distress. He was a broken weapon.

In two days, he’d be standing in the arena to take down young men and women who were fresh, young, quick and strong. His only hope was that his experience would make things easier. And even if they managed to defeat him, it would still be better than returning to his empty, lonely estate in the middle of nowhere.

If he had to, he’d burn it down, and stay inside with a bottle of good alcohol. Dying was more pleasant with alcohol in one’s stomach.

Finally left alone by Alec, Mallory or whoever might think that talking to him was a good idea, Bond decided to search for a place to sleep. It was late evening, people were outside, excited about the Games; finding a room to rent should not be hard. If the people forgot to do so upon arriving, that was.

He found a room with a wooden bed and insects running over the floor, and settled down for the night. Over the course of the night, all he heard was the babbling of people outside. They weren’t what kept him awake. The last thing Bond needed now were nightmares, and the demons haunting his sleep always came, always have ever since the War. It might have been a curse – who knew what the witches’ magic was capable of? He had seen them tear apart men with their minds alone, breaking them in half and spilling blood on the ground. A curse robbing Bond of his sleep seemed more plausible than that.

In the morning, Alec was waiting outside Bond’s room with a bottle of rum, and a plate filled with food. Bond pushed past him and slipped into the washing room, where he stripped with little shame, and began to rub his skin clear with water. It had been brown even before he used it, but took on an unhealthy colour after a while. Alec watched in silence, gnawing on a piece of bread.

After it became clear to Bond that he did not plan to leave anytime soon, he turned around, and stared at the other Alpha with raised eyebrows. “What is it?”  
  
“Food for you. Other people would be thankful, especially when they have not brought anymore coin than for two nights.” Alec’s eyes wandered down Bond’s torso, and stopped at the fresh wound on his shoulder. “So Mallory was right when he said you died. What brought you back?”

“My stubbornness,” Bond grumbled and dropped the soap back into the water. The dirt was running down his arms and his back, leaving him behind with a feeling of utter disgust. He remembered the days of being clean, of waking up with Vesper pressed to his back. Sometimes, he could still smell her scent lingering on his skin. It had been years. He was over her, but the memories burnt regardless.

“Someone up there didn’t want to see you die,” Alec mused, stealing another piece of bread. “They must be gambling over what will take you down in the end.”

“If you keep on talking, I might provoke you until it is you.”

Alec laughed out loud and put the plate on the ground. He walked over, slowly, hands up like he was cornering an animal, before cupping both of Bond’s cheeks with his hands. It happened so quickly that the other had no chance to dodge or step back.

Suddenly, they were face to face, and Bond stopped breathing in surprise at the fire burning inside Alec’s eyes.

“Six Omegas. We are forty-seven knights. Three rounds, only six will be left in the end,” Alec whispered, tightening his grip. “You and I, we will be one of them. We’ll go home with a beautiful Omega on our side, a flower that will blossom under our hands. Understood?”  
  
Bond just nodded numbly. He had not expected Alec to be so emotional over this. The other always preferred the company of Betas, even though he could have taken an Omega and had enough chances to do so. Bond assumed he had come here for joy, to get rid of some energy that the war left in his veins, not to bond.

“In the first round, one Alpha will not have to fight. Apparently they’re going to let the audience decide, or they’ll draw the name.” Alec looked at the door in case someone might walk in, giving Bond the chance to get some space between them. “Twenty-three fights, twenty-four will enter round two.”  
  
“I’m aware of the rules,” Bond said, a shiver running down his spine as the water dried on his naked skin.

“You’ll have to survive three fights, James, only three fights. And then...”  
  
“Then I will be able to call an Omega mine,” Bond finished, attempting to grin. It must have come out as a grimace, however, judging from how wrong it felt. Alec said nothing, might not even have noticed, or chose to stay silent for Bond’s sake. People were like books, easy to read, filled with information and willing to talk; Alec was written in runes, in languages long forgotten and words that were barely more than a whisper.

Bond had no idea what he was trying to accomplish with this talk, but the other was a mystery and would always be.

“Now eat. In your current condition, you won’t be a match for anyone.”

“Thank you,” Bond said, voice dripping in sarcasm. He got dressed quickly, then picked up the plate and stared down at the food. Meat, bread, cheese, something green that he could not identify. The selection could be worse.

“You are welcome.”

Bond rolled his eyes in mock-annoyance, tore a large chunk off the meat and bit into it. Manners didn’t matter when with Alec, not after they had stood side by side on a field of corpses. Two lone wolves barely keeping it together, one hiding behind a grin and humour, the other behind a bottle of beer.

Three fights. Forty-seven knights would begin, and only six remain.

For a moment, Bond wondered if the Omegas, if they could, would want to have a say. Many claimed that the Gods gave them the ability to change fate; to take hold of the strings that were connected to people, to twist them into a new shape. During the War, many Omegas found their death just because of this legend, just because some noblemen feared they were witches in disguise.

Bond emptied half of the bottle in one gulp and held it in Alec’s direction, the two of them drinking and eating in silence. Tomorrow, or the day afterwards, they might have to fight against the other. And Bond knew that he wouldn’t win. They used to be equals, but with his injuries, Bond was no match.

The brown wolf brought down the white. It almost felt like the end of an era.

_Xx_  
  
 _dulce bellum inexpertis_  
  
xX

War is sweet to those who have never fought. This sentence ran through Bond’s mind like a mantra, starting over and over again, as he stood in the line of fighters and looked up to the King. He was a young man, half Bond’s age, who followed in his father’s footsteps after the old King was brought down by a witch.

From his words alone, everyone could figure that he never had to hold a sword himself. Bond had respect for the old King, a man who led his knights into battle himself, but not for the new one. A greenhorn who wished for a new War just to prove himself, unaware of the horrors, the fear and the destruction it caused. If it ever came to that, Bond would rather commit treason and behead the King himself than go into battle for him.

He knew Alec felt the same. Standing a bit further away from Bond, he was rocking back and forth on his heels, looking almost unimpressed by the speech the King delivered. Brave knights who won the War, who brought the light back to the kingdom, have gathered here to fight for an Omega at their side, he said, and to entertain the people.

Bond couldn’t care less about them.

It was sick to enjoy watching knights kill each other, to find pleasure in witnessing violence and the spilling of blood. There even were children sitting on their parents’ shoulders, their eyes sparkling in fascination. They never saw the horrors of war; to them, it was something so impossible that they craved for it to happen.

“We have drawn the name of the knight who does not have to participate in round one,” the King said out loud, hand holding up the piece of paper. Bond didn’t let himself hope, unlike the many knights around him; he knew what his destiny was. “Ser Silva!”

Bond never heard of the man, but seeing him step out of line and bathe in the cheering of the people, it almost felt like he had. There was something so terribly familiar about the way he walked and held himself, the way his bright grin didn’t reach his eyes. If it wasn’t for certain manners Bond spotted in the few seconds before Silva left the arena, he would have believed he was looking into a mirror.

Instinctually, Bond tightened his grip around his sword. The sense of danger only disappeared once Silva was out of sight, and even then it echoed in his brain.

One by one, the knights were called forward with their opponents, were given a time to fight, and were dismissed. Bond saw Alec go with a young woman, a typical Alpha female whose arrogance lay in the air like the scent of bile, and watched others leave until he and a few others were the only ones left.

“Ser Patrice,” the King called, reading the names off a list, “your opponent for the first round will be Ser Bond.”

For the first time since this play began, Bond stood to attention. He stepped forward like his opponent did, turned slightly and took a good look at him. Just like Bond, he wasn’t the youngest, but there still were years between the two. What Bond had in muscles, Patrice offered in cunning and speed; it was easy to tell after spending years analysing the enemy before attacking with little more than a few seconds to find weak points.

Patrice. Bond watched him go, then left himself. Nothing kept him here; he knew when he was to show up, what he was supposed to do.

Alec’s fight was the one right before his. Watching from the tents of the knights, Bond observed, analysed, memorised, just in case they would have to fight against each other. Alec had gotten faster since Bond last saw him fight. He still provoked the enemy with his loose tongue and lack of respect, but he seemed more mature – he hadn’t given his opponent a clout yet.

“Nervous?”

Bond flinched and turned around, sword in his hand before he was even aware of it. With the grip lying heavy in his hand, instincts kicked in. The edge of his sword was pressed against the intruder’s throat, cold metal against warm skin. Only now did Bond turn his head, and paused when he saw who it was.

“Sneaking up on a knight is a bad idea,” Bond said through gritted teeth and let his sword drop again. Silva rubbed his throat, his dead, meaningless grin still in place. It looked like someone froze it, made it permanent.

“I wasn’t aware that you would not be aware of my presence,” Silva said. “But then, I should have known. Your bad ear makes it hard to hear someone come in from your left.” At Bond’s surprised gaze, he laughed. The noise reminded Bond of a sword scratching over bones. “Don’t be so surprised, James! You’re not the only one searching for vulnerable points. Everything is allowed in war.”

“We’re not in war.”

Silva looked at him for a few moments, his grin growing to the point the corners of his lips nearly reached his cheeks. He remained silent until a shout of triumph could be heard from the battlefield. Both knights turned simultaneously. Bond searched for Alec’s body on the ground, but found him standing; out of breath, with a few cuts on his cheeks, but alive. His opponent lay in the grass, her hands pressed on a wound.

“We might not be now,” Silva said, tearing Bond out of his thoughts. He ran a hand through his white hair, rolled his shoulders and then tilted his head. A bloody coyote, that was what he reminded Bond of. Either that, or a snake. “But who knows what the future brings?”

As it was his time to fight now, Bond ignored his words and climbed over the fence separating them from the field. Patrice was there already, watching the female Alpha being carried away with little sympathy in his eyes. Bond approached, step by step, ready to attack the moment the signal was given.

“Ser Bond,” the King proclaimed from his throne far up on the tribune, “against Ser Patrice. Fight!”

Patrice dashed forward immediately. Bond barely had the time to pull up his sword before Patrice cut through his face. He moved to the side to let Patrice stumble, his right arm practically bouncing up as he attacked on his own. He aimed for Patrice’s leg, intending to cut it so he’d fall, but Patrice pushed Bond backwards and out of reach.

A real fight was nothing like the honourable matches the civilians expected.

In war, there was no time for beautiful manoeuvres, for perfectly executed attacks. It was dirty, it was quick, it was unfair.

Bond tackled Patrice, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist to pull him down. Their swords were sent flying away, lying there in the grass while the two knights wrestled. Alec’s opponent had never been at war, nor ever had to fight outside of tournaments; she stuck to the rules, didn’t use chances to bite, elbow or tackle down. Bond and Patrice both had fought for their lives before.

There was nothing knightly about the way they fought.

Bond pressed his hand on Patrice’s face, using his fingers to put pressure on his bones. His other hand went around Patrice’s throat, squeezing and fully aware that he might kill him this way. If it wouldn’t have been for Patrice’s legs that kicked Bond off and onto his back, then he would have.

Everything was a blur. In one moment, Bond had to pull his arms in front of his face to protect it from Patrice’s punches, the next he delivered a harsh blow to the younger man’s ribs. The sound of breaking bones made him feel sick. In this moment of weakness, Patrice rolled to the side, picked up his sword and rushed forward once more.

The sword’s point tore open Bond’s skin. It took seconds, perhaps even minutes or longer, until Bond realised Patrice had attacked his right arm. Stumbling backwards, Bond tried to lift it, but the pain that tore through him made him stop mid-motion. He gritted his teeth, the bitter taste of vomit and blood on his tongue, and stared as blood ran down his arm.

Patrice approached. He was out of breath, but still did not stop or pause, holding his sword in both hands as if waiting for the right moment to separate Bond’s head from his throat. The crowd was cheering. From the corners of his eyes, Bond saw Alec standing in the tent, a bandage wrapped around his torso, next to him Silva with a grin that sent a shiver down Bond’s spine even metres away.

Only three fights, Bond thought, only three fights and then he wouldn’t be alone anymore. Three fights, and he’d have someone who could take away his pain, his misery, who could banish the nightmares forever.

Bond looked over the ground, ducked and pushed his head right underneath Patrice’s chin. The knight was knocked backwards, one hand slipping off the sword’s grip. Bond kneed him in his guts, then drove his elbow down his neck, sending Patrice on the ground.

The next moment, Bond had his sword in his left hand. The noises of the crowd were nothing but a rustling in his ears, drowning under the noise of his beating heart. Slowly, Bond sunk down on his knees, pressing them down on Patrice’s legs so he could not move. He punched him in the face, again and again, until his fingers were sticky from the blood and his knuckles blue.

Patrice stared up at him, not struggling, nor trying to lift his sword.

A knight knew when his time was over. Bond appreciated he took it with pride, and did not attempt to fight any more.

He lifted his sword with his left hand, point brushing over Patrice’s chest, and pushed down. The scream of his opponent was drowned out by the cheering of the people. Bond waited until Patrice stopped twitching, then stood up.

He turned to face the king, spread his arms to the side and presented the blood on his hands. As he listened to the thrilled crowd, he had to swallow down the tears rushing into his eyes, and the bile that rose up his throat. He needed alcohol, and he needed it now. Alec seemed to understand. Before Bond could even process it, the other had dragged him aside and into the tent, where he pressed a bottle of something into Bond’s hands.

Without really caring what it was, Bond downed it, and pressed his hand against his mouth as he felt his gag reflex. He had been through worse; had fought battles, had been captured by witches, but somehow, nothing was worse than this.

This... this feeling of anxiety, of being weak and broken into thousands of pieces that wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Only two more fights,” Bond heard Alec say, his voice distant and blurred beyond recognition. “Impressive how you fought.”

Bond just grumbled, finished the bottle and threw it aside. They had to stay here for a little while longer, just until the last battle was fought, then were given their opponent for round two. Only twenty-four knights were left of forty-seven who started. This time, it was Bond who fought against a female Alpha; he had seen her before, but couldn’t remember where. She was not as muscular as he was, but Bond knew better than to assume that it would be easy. Apparently, she practically ripped her opponent in half.

Alec’s battle was the first, and would start in a few hours. Regardless, he gripped Bond’s shoulder, and pulled him back into the tent. “Your arm looks horrible. We need to get you a bandage and some potions.”

“I’m fine,” Bond said and pushed him away. Swaying, he stood up and turned away, pressing his hand down on the wound as he left. He couldn’t stay here any longer, or else he’d throw up and break down.

Right now, he didn’t want anyone to be around him. All he wanted was peace.

How ironic that he found the opposite.

Every city had corners that no one knew. The crowds had been gathered around the arena, so the further Bond went away from it, the less people he encountered. By the time he reached the castle itself, there hardly were any people, a few guards that let him pass without a second glance. Bond didn’t know what brought him here, but he was glad about the calm.

He even managed to convince a Beta to give him a bottle of alcohol, the Beta’s red cheeks almost glowing after Bond flirted. The moment he turned around, he dropped his smile again, undid the cap and began to drink.

He was so concentrated that he didn’t notice where he went, nor how he practically ran over a young boy. Only the surprised gasp coming from the ground made Bond pause and look down. Not a boy, he thought, a young man, maybe of eighteen years or less. He had skin so bright and white that Bond figured he had never seen the daylight, nor any hard work before, and yet hair as black as the night.

It was then that the scent rose into Bond’s nose and made his pupils dilate instantly.

_Omega_.

The man shuffled backwards against the wall and slowly pulled himself up, eyes not leaving Bond. He didn’t look scared, the Alpha realised with surprise, he was neither shivering, nor did he smell of stress and fear. There was determination in his eyes, a dark fire that burnt brighter than anything else.

Bond dropped his hand from his sword again and let out a curse as he moved his right arm. He had almost forgotten about his injury.

“What are you doing here,” the boy asked, voice nearly as posh as the King’s. “These are closed quarters for the knights.”

“I could ask you the same,” Bond huffed and stepped closer. The boy raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. “Omegas have their own area in the castle in the upper storeys. You being here is just as illegal as me being here.”

“Oh, I could always claim that you kidnapped me.”

Bond frowned. “You could?”

The boy looked at him in distaste, with a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “Of course I could. All I need is to cry and scream for help. If they find an Alpha here with an Omega before the end of the Games, their instant assumption will be you decided to sneak in. Perhaps because your arm would make winning impossible.”

“It’s but a scratch.”

Without any warning, the boy moved forward and pressed a finger into the wound. Bond hissed and pushed him away, sending the boy flying on his back.

“Nothing but a scratch,” he repeated with mock-amusement and stood back up again. “I hope your left arm is as strong as your right one, Ser Knight. Otherwise you will be no match for anyone.”

Bond turned his head at the noise of metal, but no one came closer, no one had heard them. Security here truly had its weaknesses; he assumed the guards had gone off to watch the Games or were lying drunk in a corner. Bond had served his time as a guard, he knew what lazy bastards they were. If it ever came to an attack, they wouldn’t fight; they’d run, or become traitors.

“If you’d excuse me now, I shall continue on my way out here,” the boy said, gave a short bow and tried to slip past Bond.

“Where are you going,” Bond asked and took hold of the boy’s arm, painfully aware he could crush it under his fingers if he pleased. The boy was so thin, so delicate. A perfect Omega if it wouldn’t be for his manners.

“None of your business, Ser Knight.” The Omega turned his head and stared into Bond’s eyes. They were a bright green, almost like an emerald, illuminating his face alone. Bond blinked in surprise as he found himself considering to lean in, but blamed the years spent not seeing a single Omega, not to mention being close to one. It wasn’t his fault the boy smelled so sweet, so... pure.

“What is your name?”

The boy sighed. “You can call me Q.”

An unusual name, Bond thought, but let the matter drop. There were more important things to deal with. “I should bring you back to your quarters.”

Q’s expression changed, a dark shadow falling over his face. “Oh? And will you?”

Bond was silent for a few moments, then nodded. If he brought the boy back, he might be able to win him in the Games. There was something about him that drew Bond closer, something that filled him with the urge to _possess_.

Last time he felt like that, he had claimed Vesper as his.

“If that is the case,” Q said, eyes burning holes into Bond’s head, “then you leave me no choice.”

It happened in a matter of seconds.

One moment, Bond had held the Omega’s arm in his hand, the next he was thrown against a wall, all air punched out of his lungs. He gasped and tried to move, but something kept him in place until the next punch was delivered. It came from nowhere, happened so fast that Bond had no time to react.

He felt himself sink down the wall, dots dancing in front of his inner eye, and barely managed to look up. Q lowered his arm, nothing but a blurry mess for Bond, checked the area then ran down the corridor.

His footsteps echoing from the walls was the last thing Bond heard before he lost consciousness.


End file.
